womens poetry for a change
issue # 59
fall 2003
page three...
soul searchers diet margaret boles peeling, peeling, peeling potatoes skimming skins scantily fabulous food, ferocious waste feel the bitter famines taste reflect my rash peelings pandering hurry, my feelings always for the humble spud for my hunger, its so good |
after a long illness rochelle hope mehr blessed solitude where have you gone? thrust into the world I am newly undone too much to remember too much left undone thrust into the world naked alone scared undone raw flesh to be eaten by a devouring world heart exposed flesh to be spat upon heart to be shat upon |
misdiagnosis/mistreatment lament rochelle hope mehr catch it. Catch it if you can catch it early do not wait until the tentacles lose their grip until the tensors forget their intensity until the mind slackens and the tongue flaps gibberish until the drool congeals and nobody sees you as sane and your mind and body are not mundane objects of manipulation in an assembly line of the latest one-size-fits-all weathervanes theyll affix one to an amenable membrane youll point in all the correct directions at all the appropriate times but still be quite insane |
morning rochelle hope mehr now the room barely contains me I am so much of the moment and the stark appearance thrusts its mottled self squarely into my eye something sensitive is lost to the sensible what was held in this room - suspended in horizontal fixture - defined and squeezed and nestled into its own nebulouscurvaturexistence is gone books on the bookshelves just books a bed, a bed the gingham pattern on the bedspread looks superfluous the curtains spread gingerly the light trickles in |
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om rochelle hope mehr is there nothing left to write? no animus? no angst? no abounding symphony of histrionic pang(s)tellar nobler battles still to come? all I want is peace all I want is om |
thats my poem about pickles temi rose I want to write a poem about pickles pickles taste good theyre crunchy or not but if not they arent pickled properly and pregnant women purportedly crave them pickles |
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the uncertainty principle |